


Casino Night

by fireandhoney



Series: Based on [insert media content here] [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Based on The Office (US), I'm so sorry, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, casino night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireandhoney/pseuds/fireandhoney
Summary: Based on The Office s02e22 "Casino Night"
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Based on [insert media content here] [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065803
Kudos: 13





	Casino Night

They’re at a Yard event, a gala of some sort. Sherlock’s not quite sure, but he knows he and John were personally invited and even though he tried to argue, John forced him to attend. And that’s how he finds himself leaning back against the bar of a hotel's conference room, watching people talking and dancing. John is across the room, Mary on his arm, socializing. Probably discussing their upcoming wedding. They look like any other couple here tonight, happy, together. Communicating without saying words, existing as a unit. 

Sherlock takes a sip of his drink, and averts his gaze. He spent most of the evening here, away from the crowd, observing. He did talk with Lestrade for a while, and even Donovan shared a few words with him, entirely motivated by her guilt, but ultimately, there isn’t much to stimulate him. Not much to keep him occupied, to keep his thoughts at bay. Deciding he needs a break, Sherlock stands straight and makes his way to the doors. He leaves the room, then the building, without anyone noticing him, and he stands slightly off the main door. 

The cool air whips his face and he breathes deeply, reaching into his breast pocket to take out his pack of cigarettes. He slides one in his mouth and covers the flame with his hands as he flips his lighter. He inhales and closes his eyes. The nicotine is a relief, a buoy holding him afloat as he felt himself drift. So familiar, ancient, home. Not much feels familiar since he came back. Nowhere’s home. He’d been an idiot, a sentimental idiot, to think his life would still exist after so long. To think that it’d have waited for him. That _he_ ’d have waited for him. Baker Street wasn’t Baker Street without its resident doctor. He’s very thankful for the nicotine.

As he’s starting to enjoy the quietness of the night, he hears voices approaching. As soon as the door opens, he knows he won’t be able to avoid interactions, and so he sighs, takes a final puff of his cigarette, then stubs it out and leaves it in the ashtray. 

“...tired, John. But you can stay, I’ll just go home and lay down.”

“Sherlock?”

He turns towards John - reading the easy disapproving on his face as he eyes the ashtray - then to Mary, and offers his best pretend smile. Mary’s in return seems genuine though. 

“Ah, there, excellent! Hey, Holmes! Keep an eye on him, alright?”

Sherlock frowns, but nods nonetheless. “Okay. Will do.” 

Mary leans in and kisses John’s cheek, who is still staring at Sherlock, but reacts to her lips and turns towards her. The two men watch her as she hails a cab and leaves, but quickly, their good excuse to avoid one another is gone and they don’t know what to do anymore. At least, Sherlock doesn’t. It’s the first time the two of them are alone and it isn’t for a case, since... The first time they’re just… there. Sherlock’s eyes slide from the kerb to John’s back, and he sees him take a long breath, squaring his shoulders, and turning around. Ever the soldier, needing his posture to give him courage. But courage for what? Being Sherlock’s friend? That didn’t require so much effort _before_. John takes a few steps towards him, and even though he wants to look away, Sherlock’s gaze is fixed on him. 

“Hey.”

John’s voice is hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s welcomed. As if he ever wouldn’t be. 

“Hey.”

“How are you doing? With…” John points towards the hotel. Ah yes, the event. Good, narrows down the question. Sherlock isn’t sure John would be able to deal with the real answer. 

“Bored.”

John huffs, amused. The beginning of a smile. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry I insisted. This was…” he leans his head to the side, looking for a word. Sherlock wants to help, supply _insufferable_ , _meaningless_ , _the type of things you used to hate, John_ , but he doesn’t say anything, lets the silence fall on them. 

John breathes, looks around, is reminded of the cigarette. He looks back up and meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“Smoking, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stares back. “We cope how we can, don’t we.”

John’s confused, but then he gets it. He tries to hide it, but Sherlock knows him better than that. The recognition, the shame, the hurt, the sadness, and finally, the anger. Sherlock sighs, always the same, repetitive cycle.

“You were dead, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is bored. He’s done defending himself, justifying his actions. Done with John playing the victim, when he’s the one with the scars. He’s done pretending. 

“I’m in love with you.”

John freezes. He’s shocked, and he blinks, and Sherlock is bored. They’ve spent years turning around the words, around the obvious facts, the screaming truth. 

“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear but I need you to hear it. Probably not a good timing, I know that, but you also know I’ve never been good with these things.”

John looks like breathing’s taking a great deal of his concentration. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Ah, again. How dare he, right? He tilts his head to the side. Come on John, it’s obvious. 

“I can’t do this anymore. I just needed you to know. Once.”

John licks his lower lip, exhales. 

“Well, I… I… I can’t…”

Sherlock nods, absorbing the blow. Again. 

“Yeah.”

“You have no idea…”

Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Don’t do that.”

“...what your friendship means to me.”

“Come on, John. I don’t want that, I can’t, not anymore. I want to be _more_ than that.”

A beat. 

“I can’t.”

Sherlock can feel the treacherous warmth of a tear down his right cheek. He lets it fall. 

“I’m really sorry if… if you misinterpreted things, Sherlock. It’s probably my fault.”

Sherlock huffs. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry if I _misinterpreted_ our _friendship_.”

He picks up his cigarette pack, lights one, gives John a small nod, and turns around, walking down the pavement into the darkness of the night. His heart is beating fast in his chest, and his face is wet, freezing in the cold wind, but he ignores it. Ignores the calls of his body, because if he didn’t, he’d be crashing down. And so he ignores it all, focusing on the smoke burning his lungs and the sound of his shoes on the cement. 

John’s on his mobile, standing on the pavement under a streetlight, in front of the hotel. 

“...about ten minutes ago. No, I didn’t know what to say… Yes I know… I don’t know, Greg. You know how he is… he’s my… I’m not... yeah, alright... I think I do.”

Sherlock appears in the soft, warm lighting, but John doesn’t notice. He turns and sees Sherlock. 

“Oh, I have to go...I will.”

John hangs up. Sherlock steps closer, John doesn’t move. 

“Listen, Sherlock, I…”

Before he can say another word, Sherlock, without breaking his stride, takes John in his arms and kisses him. For a moment, John is startled, but not unwilling. He returns the kiss. Slowly, his arms come up, his hands resting on Sherlock’s chest before they slide up against his neck and into his hair. Sherlock’s hands are on his lower back, holding him close, and they kiss. Their lips come apart for a second, they breathe, and Sherlock goes in to capture John’s again, but John’s hands are back to his chest and he pushes him, softly. The two separate. They stand close together, connected by a stare. 

Another moment passes. 

Sherlock’s chest is heaving. It’s too much. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

John can’t help the smile that curls his reddened lips. 

“Me too. ... I think we’re just drunk.”

Sherlock frowns, taken aback. 

“I’m not drunk. Are you drunk?”

He asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

John shakes his head, not breaking eye contact. “No.”

Sherlock nods and leans in for another kiss, but John turns his head, avoiding him. 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. 

“Are you really going to marry her?”

John nods. Sherlock takes a step back, nods too. This is it, then. Them. He forces himself to not read the pain on John’s face, forces himself to ignore the cycle, to turn around. Forces himself not to hope John will call his name, forces himself to ignore the suffocating silence as he walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my favourite episode of The Office, and I had to make it somehow work in this universe, so this happened. I'm sorry.


End file.
